His Ring
by FranklyAlarming
Summary: John comes home from work to find Sherlock missing and his coat on fire. Along with his wedding band. Established realationship. Fluff. Rated for slight torture. Comments and critisisms are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!


A day at the surgery was really far too long to be without Sherlock.

Yes, he texted. Far too much, actually. His phone was constantly buzzing in his pocket but it wasn't as if he could check his messages when he was with a patient. Sherlock had a surprisingly elegant way with words. Shouldn't have been surprising really, Sherlock was just a naturally elegant man, but John would have thought he would be the get-to-the-point sort of man. And he was. Just not with John. With John, Sherlock could be a poet. Sometimes John would receive texts that sounded like love songs and they damn near broke his heart because they were beautiful.

But now he needed the real thing. Not just the words. The living, breathing, scowling, pacing, loving, real thing. The real thing that would hold him close and breathe into his hair and laugh when John sighed a content sigh. The real thing that would growl in the back of his throat when John bit him gently on the neck but would whine softly when John pulled away.

As soon as he stepped into the flat, he smelt smoke. The fire alarm wasn't going off so he put the smell down to one of Sherlock's experiments. Climbing the stairs, it smelt like burning fabric. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be around which was worrying, thinking that if anything went wrong, Sherlock was alone for the day. This thought made John climb the stairs two at a time.

What he saw when he entered the flat made him want to be sick. He wasn't quite sure why, but it just...was wrong.

Sherlock's coat was in the middle of the living room, flames dancing over it. Sherlock wasn't in the coat, thank God, but it was still a horrible sight. John cursed under his breath and quickly fetched the fire extinguisher from the kitchen. He blasted the coat with foam until the flames no longer danced. Something shined out from the foam and folds of charred fabric and John knelt to inspect it.

His blood ran cold.

A gold ring, inscribed on the inside with the words 'You Changed Me' because they were so painfully true, just like John's but slightly smaller to fit a more slender finger. Sherlock's wedding band.

John clutched the ring tightly and his stomach dropped. "Sherlock?" He cried, his voice thick with panic. He called louder, stronger this time. "SHERLOCK?"

Still no reply.

John scanned the room for some sign as to where his Sherlock was. His eyes fell on an envelope addressed 'Doctor Johnny Boy'. He snatched the letter off the coffee table where it sat and ripped it open, seething with rage. The cursive lettering read:

'I hope you don't mind, I took your lover out to play. Come join us, Hubby!  
All my love, JM x  
P.S. Here's a hint from your little toy boy, he says; back to the beginning. He also says don't come, but I have a sneaky suspicion you won't listen. TTFN Johnny Boy!'

John crushed the letter in his fist and flew out of the flat. He considered just running flat out to St Bart's but he wasn't sure he knew the way on foot. He hailed a cab and threw himself in. "St Bart's," he snapped at the cabbie, who was looking a little scared, "And fast, please, I don't care what it costs, my husband's in trouble."

Pay the cabbie his due, he went as fast as he could. Even running red lights and going way over the speed limit, for which John was eternally grateful. John threw a handful of notes at him, not really paying attention to the amount, and burst into Bart's. The place was shut for the night but he knew the one room where he would find Sherlock and Moriarty.

The same lab where John had limped in and gave Sherlock his phone. Where he had been asked "Iraq or Afghanistan." Those first words from his lips the most impressive and confusing thing John had ever heard. Now the room looked very different.

There were tall pillar candles on every surface, flickering and burning softly, the only light in the room. It was hauntingly beautiful. Then his eyes fell on Sherlock. His beautiful, beautiful Sherlock.

He felt like crying. Screaming. Killing.

He was tied down to the table on his back, looking at John with poorly disguised terror. His ash brown curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat and his shirt was open, revealing long, thin, shallow cuts all over his pale torso. He looked so pale. The red lines were like a spider's web and it all was just so...wrong.

Suddenly, John was grabbed by two men, one on each arm, tall and broad. He hadn't noticed Moriarty, standing there, looking like a smug bastard.

"Hello, Johnny Boy! Do you like my little surprise? I thought the candles might make it a bit more... romantic." John snarled at him; "What the hell are you doing? What do you want with him, let him go!" Moriarty laughed but didn't answer the question. "You remember when I told Sherlock dear that I would burn the heart out of him, don't you?"  
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" John demanded. "Ah, well," said Moriarty, walking closer to John, "Is has come to my attention that you have become his heart, but just setting you on fire didn't seem...me...enough. No, no, no, I needed something a little...metaphorical. So, what hurts Sherlock the most? No form of physical pain, obviously. But seeing you in pain? That would kill him. So how do I hurt you the most? Again, you're a soldier! No form of physical pain would compare to seeing your poor Sherlock being tortured, and you can't do a thing to stop it."

"Watch me!" John spat. "Oh no, you can fight my little friends," he gestured to the men securing John's arms, "All you like, but you won't get out of their hold. Anyways, I was thinking, what part of Sherlock would John like best? Well, I wouldn't go for the obvious choice, if you catch my drift, you're far more sentimental than that. I considered his devastatingly beautiful eyes, but then he couldn't watch you suffer. Lips would be good, but they would heal far too fast. And then it occurred to me," He walked over to where Sherlock was lying and picked up one of his hands that was balled into a tight fist. He caressed it in a way that made John's blood boil with rage. "These slender, strong, sinful hands."

Moriarty then produced a beaker of clear liquid and tipped it slowly over Sherlock's hand. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and groaned through gritted teeth in pain, arching his back off the table. John used all of his strength against the two men but his attempts at escape were in vain. He kicked back with his heels against their shins but they didn't seem to feel any pain. He shouted abuse to them and to Moriarty through gritted teeth and cried out Sherlock's name until his strength was spent and he could only stand there, limply. The liquid, which was now clear it was some sort of acid, sizzled where it touched flesh and Moriarty giggled femininely.

He continued to pour until all of the acid was gone but still hissing on Sherlock's flesh. He then repeated the step on Sherlock's other hand.

Angry tears stung behind John's eyes and he cursed the fact that he hadn't thought to bring a gun. He felt so bloody useless! What good was he that he couldn't even protect his own husband, he was a soldier for god's sakes!

"Let him go boys!" Came the demand from Moriarty when he was done and the grips loosened on John's arms. He threw himself to Sherlock's side, touching his face, dying to ease his pain.

"Well I think I've done my bit, I hope you have healing hands, John. Let's hope you're a better doctor than you are husband!" He laughed at his own joke as he left the room, his two men in toe.

"John," Sherlock cried as soon as the door shut, craning his neck off the table to look up at John, "My ring, they took my wedding band, John!" John brushed the damp hair off Sherlock's head in an attempt to soothe him. "It's alright," he said softly, "I've got it, it's okay."  
"I need it, John, I need it on!" He pleaded. "Sherlock, your hands," John resoned. "I don't care, John!" The despiration in his voice was almost too much for John to stand, "I need it, John, please, it won't hurt. I hate being without it, please!"  
"Alright," John replied tenderly, pushing the band gently onto his ring finger. Sherlock winced but said nothing to show the pain.

John released Sherlock from the table and he sat up quickly, grasping John to his chest. "You fought so hard for me, against those men. You sounded so angry," he murmured into John's shoulder. John chuckled softly.  
"Of course I did, you idiot!" He felt Sherlock smile against his neck and he continued in a more serious tone; "I am so sorry Sherlock, if I had got home earlier or if I was just stronger, I could of-" Sherlock pulled back and looked John in the eyes, making him trail off the end of his sentance. "You bloody idiot. This isn't your fault. There's no real harm done, my hands will heal, love. And if you were a better doctor than you were husband, you would have to be... words can't describe," he said softly. John just smiled and held him close.

Sherlock refused to go to a hospital so John treated his wounds back at the flat. The cuts on his chest didn't need much attention, but his hands were bandaged up with ointment.

He demanded he wear his ring under the bandages.


End file.
